Breathing Is Boring
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: ****In light of the events of 'The Blind Banker' Sherlock suffers untoward complications as a result of his double strangulation, and it falls to John to take on his professional role of doctor and look after his friend, despite still suffering the effects of his own injuries!


**Breathing Is Boring**

"John…" A choking voice sounded beside the young doctor in the early hours of the morning as Watson became vaguely aware of the fact that he was being shaken awake. His head still throbbed from the blow he'd taken the evening before, and his vision continued to blur in and out of focus for a good few seconds before he finally managed to make out the figure of his friend standing over him. He couldn't make out the face of the alarm clock on his bedside table, but could tell by the dark of the room that it was probably still the very early hours of the morning.

"John…" Sherlock tried to rouse his friend again, and Watson immediately covered his head with a pillow trying to drown out the Detective's demands for his attention. "John… for God's sake, wake up…"

"For God's sake Sherlock?" Watson suddenly snapped. "It's the early hours of the morning, I have to get up for work in just a few more hours, and my head is killing me. Surely you with all your powers of deduction can see that even if you don't need sleep around 99% of the general population still do. Whatever it is can wait till morning!"

"But John…" The Consulting Detective tried again, choking out the words in between strangled gulps of air. "This can't wait… I… John…"

It was only now that sleep had eluded him, and his brain had started to adjust to the darkness which deprived his senses that he was able to make more sense of what was going on around him, and detect the note of genuine distress in the other man's weak tone – no longer demanding of his undivided attention as it so usually was, but even maybe slightly fearful and lined with a faint undertone of desperation. His voice sunk to an inaudible whisper before he appeared to give up on speech completely.

"Sherlock?" He frowned in the darkness.

But Sherlock had suddenly gone quiet – he could still hear the sound of the other man's breathing – fast and slightly laboured, more laboured than he would have ideally liked to hear now that he came to think about it in fact.

"Sherlock?" He asked again – more concerned now as his façade of anger and frustration began to crack. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

He fumbled for a moment with the switch to the lamp on his bedside table, squinting slightly as he found it and it took his eyes a moment to adjust as the room was immediately flooded with a blinding blanket of light.

Sherlock was standing in the open doorway to his bedroom, the perspiration glistening against his pale forehead and trickling down the back of his neck and brow – and there was an alarmingly blue, cyanotic pigment to his complexion, as he took short, shallow gasps of breath.

"John… I… I can't breathe." He gasped – lips slightly grey as he clutched and clawed instinctively at his chest as though to do so might somehow help him draw breath easier. The injury to his neck was more apparent now, and even more blue and purple bruises appeared to have formed in the last few hours since Watson had last tended to the wound.

"Bloody shit Sherlock!" He cursed as he leapt from the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he made his way over to his friend's side – urgently palpating the pink and angry welt of the ligature mark around his friend's neck, and as he did so the cause of Sherlock's current difficulty became immediately apparent.

The flesh beneath his fingertips was hard and ballberous where the blood had begun to pool at the sight of the bruising. Watson had been worried that this might happen – it was the reason he'd wanted Sherlock to get himself checked over at the scene – the soft tissue had now started to swell at the point of injury, narrowing his airway and consequently making it difficult for Sherlock to breathe. John's heart skipped a beat as he suddenly realised that they were now facing a potentially life or death situation, and that if he didn't work fast to minimalize the continued swelling and get his friend to hospital soon then Sherlock could very easily die from his injuries.

He took a deep breath, allowing his army training to take over and swallowing his own fear as he guided Sherlock over to the bed and sat him down on the mattress, back propped up against the headboard. He was still in the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before, and as he helped him off with his jacket he realised that Sherlock would probably have been experiencing some pretty alarming symptoms and suffering from some significant discomfort breathing for a fair few hours before things were likely to have become anywhere near this bad, and he'd even thought to alert John to his plight. He sighed, before getting to his feet and reaching for his medical bag in the far corner of the room on his dressing table. As he did so he pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket and dialled 999 for an ambulance. How long had the world's only Consulting Detective been suffering in silence? He wondered.

John sat on the edge of the bed, one hand placed reassuringly upon Sherlock's shoulder as he calmly explained the situation to the young woman on the other end of the line, keeping a close eye on Sherlock the whole time – never taking his eyes away from his pale and sweaty face, or his palm away from his cold and slightly trembling shoulder. Sherlock's breathing was becoming increasingly more laboured with each passing minute, as he started choking and gasping for air the accelerated rise and fall of his chest became even more rapid as panic only added to his respiratory distress, and John found himself becoming increasingly frustrated with the voice on the other end of the receiver. He appreciated that the young woman had a job to do, but he was a doctor after all, and he couldn't help but feel that they were both wasting valuable time whilst he was forced to answer a stream of what were standard, but under the circumstances rather unnecessary, questions.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something during this time, but as nothing more than a strangled moan escaped him Watson put out a steady hand to firmly silence the Detective, willing him to concentrate all of his efforts into breathing. Finally however Watson was informed that she'd dispatched an ambulance to their address and he finally felt able to hang up the phone and focus on tending to his friend.

"Don't try and talk." He instructed his friend, recognising the terror in his eyes as he fought for breath. "I know it's difficult but just try and relax whilst I take a look at you."

He then proceeded to palpate the swollen fleshy area of Sherlock's throat and neck one last time, and check to see if his glands were swollen to ensure that the man's current distress was not caused by some underlying infection and _was_ a result of the trauma he'd sustained to his neck the evening before, before placing his stethoscope to Sherlock's laboured chest and listening to his heart and lungs.

As expected he sounded wheezy as the swelling restricted the air flow through his lungs, and he was distinctly tachycardic.

With his preliminary examination completed John could feel the anger rising in the pit of his stomach – this was the very reason why he'd wanted Sherlock to get himself checked over by the paramedics at the scene. If he had of done so they could have picked up on the soft tissue damage before they reached a crisis.

As things were there would be little Watson could do if Sherlock's throat swelled completely shut – he could always perform a particularly risky tracheotomy which would certainly ease the Detective's breathing, but Watson wanted to try and avoid this at all costs. Even so if the need arose it was preferable to being forced to sit back and watch him die.

"Sherlock," He explained to his friend softly, and as calmly as he could muster under the circumstances – hooking the stethoscope back around his neck once he'd finished with it, and reaching once more into his bag, "You're going to have to listen to me very carefully and do everything I say, alright? I'm going to give you a couple of injections. The injuries you've sustained to your neck over the past couple of days have caused your throat to swell, that's what's causing your current difficulty breathing."

For the first time since John had known him he recognised genuine terror in Sherlock's eyes, and that unnerved him. It unsettled all the preconceived notions which, up until now, he had formed of his friend, and shook the very foundations of his new world.

The young consulting detective simply nodded.

Sherlock, then allowing himself to be advised and guided by John for the first time since the doctor had met the detective, watched his friend tentatively break open and then fill a syringe with first an anti-inflamoratory and then a painkiller.

"I'm going to give you an anti-inflamoratory to try and reduce the swelling, and a painkiller to help with your pain and current discomfort." John explained. "And I'm sorry, this might sting a little, but only for a moment."

Sherlock gave a small gesture with his eyes to indicate that he understood. Watson then gently rolled up the other man's shirt sleeve and massaged a small amount of antiseptic onto Sherlock's arm with gauze in order to clean and sterilize the area.

Sherlock flinched visibly as the needle penetrated his pale flesh and its contents were emptied into the muscle. As he withdrew the fine metallic point of the hypodermic and applied a small amount of pressure to Sherlock's arm John frowned as he observed the angry red welt already beginning to form around the needle's point of entry – taking note that Sherlock obviously bruised easily.

He then disposed of the needle temporarily into his bag, and tossed the small piece of gauze into the nearby bin.

"Are you still having difficulty breathing?" He asked of his friend, who slowly turned his pale and perspiring face towards him, and made a small gesture to indicate in the affirmative.

John sighed. He certainly didn't need a stethoscope to pick up on Sherlock's laboured breathing, nor how his breath came in short and wheezy rasps, which whistled shrilly throughout his respiratory passage as he took a series of shallow breaths out – just how much of his current difficulty was due to his anxiety, as opposed to being caused by the swelling in his throat was almost impossible to tell – but John could see that his condition was a serious one, and he obviously wasn't coping well.

He sat observing his friend for a further moment, putting two gentle fingers to the side of his neck to check his pulse. The anti-inflamoratory would work eventually, but it needed time in order to take effect – time which Watson was concerned they might not have – but fortunately the pain-killer was much more fast acting, and after only a short amount of time Sherlock at last appeared to relax slightly as the drugs had the desired effect of making him feel a little more comfortable.

"Now Sherlock, listen to me." Watson explained gently to his friend after a moment. "You need to remain calm. I'm going to have to go downstairs and wake Mrs Hudson, I need someone outside to wait for the ambulance for me, and then I'm going to get some frozen peas to ice down your neck."

But Sherlock, to John's surprise, shook his head at this. "No... you can't." He wheezed, before grimacing as the motion appeared to cause him some pain. "We... don't... have any."

"Don't do that!" Watson exclaimed, imploring his friend to remain as still as possible. "And what do you mean we don't have any? I brought some the other day."

"I... threw them away." Sherlock explained slowly, nursing his injured throat as he spoke. "I... needed the freezer space... for an... experiment. Frozen fingers..." He forced the words through tightly gritted teeth as his breath came in ragged waves.

"For God's sake Sherlock!" Watson gave an exasperated and slightly panicked sigh with this. "I can't ice your neck down with frozen fingers!"

"There's ice... in the... freezer..." Sherlock reminded him breathlessly – of course, Sherlock always kept ice to hand in case he ever needed it for one of his many experiments. John still couldn't escape his feelings of frustration with his friend, but at least that was better than nothing at all.

"That will have to do." He sighed, as he got stiffly and gingerly to his feet. John didn't want to leave his friend for a moment, but he couldn't afford to delay matters any longer – he needed to alert Mrs Hudson to the situation, and someone had to be on hand to await the ambulance and show the paramedics up to John's bedroom when they arrived – they had little time to lose.

With this in mind Watson therefire made sure that his friend was comfortable – or as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. He fluffed the pillows, and guided him gently backwards towards the headrest, where he sat – his complexion somewhat blue and his cheeks and forehead clammy – watching his friend make a bee-line for the door with the sad eyes of a lost and terrified child.

"Don't..." He started, in a voice so weak and afraid as he implored his friend not to leave him, but John raised a firm hand to silence him.

"Don't move." Watson instructed his friend emphatically. "Just concentrate on your breathing. I'll be back as soon as I can.

I know you're scared, but you've just got to trust me. I promise you, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

With that he hurried from the room – it taking every ounce of his strength and will to draw himself away from Sherlock's side. Despite his promise to not allow anything to happen to his friend, in his absence he couldn't be entirely sure of what he might find upon his return.

John raced from the bedroom, and down the small flight of stairs, taking them two at a time – reluctant to leave Sherlock alone for any longer than was absolutely necessary. He could still hear Sherlock's laboured breathing as he descended the staircase towards the lower level, and this alarmed him somewhat. He quickened his pace, jumping the final couple of steps as he leapt from the staircase to the narrow hallway below.

He hammered on Mrs Hudson's apartment door, until she answered, bleary eyed and clothed in her dressing gown and slippers, before explaining to her as calmly as he could what had happened. His body warm and perspiring slightly with the exertion, he only realised much later that he must have appeared quite an alarming sight to their long suffering landlady, whom he'd obviously aroused from her bed, and what had presumably been a reasonably deep sleep.

Explaining the situation to her, it then took him a further moment to calm her sufficiently in order to instruct her on what he needed her to do – on paper she may have only been the two men's landlady, no relation to either of them, but in reality she was actually so much more. She was kind and gentle natured in temperament, softly spoken, and had a heart of gold.

Despite her frequent protests of "Not your housekeeper." to her two tenants, she genuinely cared about both of them, and in reality didn't really mind cooking for, cleaning up after, and making the occasional cup of tea for the two men.

That done Watson then hurried to get the bag of ice from the freezer, and made his way back upstairs to his friend – by which time he'd been away from Sherlock's side for almost ten minutes, and he returned to find his friend in a state of considerable distress.

"John..." Sherlock croaked, with evident relief as he noticed his friend return. His breathing was now even more laboured than before, and he seemed to be struggling to draw every breath.

John was scared.

He checked Sherlock's pulse – finding it to be weak and thready, and it was obvious that the Detective wasn't going to be able to hold onto consciousness for much longer, as his body was by now slowly being starved of the vital oxygen which was essential to its functioning.

Sherlock now seemed to have given up all hope of forcing any further words from between his blue tinted lips, the effort of doing so appearing to be too much for his weak body to manage, and his last attempt apparently having drained him. As John iced down his friend's neck he was able to get a closer look at his injuries, and grimaced as he observed the extent of the bruising, which was a repulsive multi-coloured mess, consisting it seemed of every shade of blue, black and purple imaginable.

Sherlock grimaced as he did this, but after a while the freezing water appeared to sooth his wounds somewhat and he relaxed a little. John then again checked his pulse, before deciding that he ought to take his friend's blood-pressure.

Reaching for his portable blood pressure monitor he heard the sound of sirens outside and breathed a sigh of relief as the sound of muffled voices reached his ears, followed by footsteps on the stairs. Gently he wrapped the cuff of the monitor around the more fleshy part of Sherlock's arm and inflated it sufficiently to achieve the required reading. He waited a few moments, and then took note of the flashing number on the small digital screen, 90/60.

"It's low." He concluded with some anxiety, and looking back at Sherlock as he removed the cuff from his arm – struggling by now to conceal his mounting concern. As he did so he turned to look up as Mrs Hudson came bustling into the room, evidently fraught and consumed with worry, as she quietly ushered the paramedics in behind her.

She appeared slightly alarmed as she glanced upon the sight of Sherlock sitting upon the bed before her, but Watson did his best to calm her evident distress and reassure her concerns, thanking her for her assistance and advising her to return to her bed and try and get some rest, before advising her not to worry – everything was now under control.

Despite his attempts to pacify her anxieties however the strong of will and determined older woman refused to leave the two men – and there was little even Watson could do to force the landlady from the rooms of her own premises, and so he relented.

He then turned to address the paramedics, who had gone to work on their patient immediately as they struggled to stabilise him for transfer – John taking on the responsibility of appeasing his obstinate friend and supervising proceedings, as they prepared to lift Sherlock onto a stretcher.

"Who... needs... to... breathe... anyway...?" Sherlock Holmes asked weakly as he was lifted onto the bed, and assisted down the stairs and into the awaiting ambulance outside, John following close behind. "Breathing... is... boring..."

**SHERLOCK**

As the sun came up on London a few days later, casting the already bustling capital city in a shadow of dark blue, Watson looked across at his friend lying in the bed opposite him. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and there was now a look of peace upon the young consulting detective's pale face to replace the look of alarm from a few days earlier. There was a drip feeding saline and some sort of medication into the back of his right hand, and he was breathing much easier now with the aid of an oxygen mask.

Sherlock had spent the past few days sedated and intubated in order to give his injured throat time to heal, and throughout this time John had been almost permanently glued to his side. He'd sat in the chair next to his friend's bed, eyes unmoving from his catatonic form as he'd watched the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, until his back had become moulded to the hard seat's wooden frame, and his wounded leg began to ache and trouble him. Periodically he would rise gingerly from his position in order to check on Sherlock's patient chart, adjust his drip, and observe his vital signs, before returning to his seat, to resume his tireless vidual.

Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and even Lestrade had been regular visits to the hospital throughout this time, although only Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had stayed for any length of time – Mycroft simply popping in between professional engagements in order to check on his brother's progress before popping out again with a somewhat mysterious and superior air. John didn't mind this so much, the few hours Mycroft had spent at his brother's bedside on the evening of his admission had been passed in uncomfortable silence, with the elder of the two Holmes brothers busy making arrangements and instructing Sherlock's numerous doctors and nurses on his younger brother's best course of care. It had come as something of a relief to John when Sherlock's well meaning but somewhat over bearing brother had finally left early the following morning.

Mrs Hudson had spent numerous afternoons plying John with hot, sweet teas and coffees from the hospital vending machine, and fussing over Sherlock's unconscious form, whilst Lestrade had brought along a selection of case notes from Scotland Yard for Sherlock to leaf through, in order to keep him occupied once he regained consciousness.

In addition to keeping her two tenants's flat maintained in their absence John was also grateful to their kindly landlady for the long hours she too had spent keeping watch over the detective's bedside, fluffing his pillows and gently ruffling his hair as she gently stroked the stray locks of his messy black mop away from his clammy forehead, enabling John to get some much needed sleep.

As the days went on she had stayed for longer, spending whole days busying herself around Sherlock's hospital room and only returning to 221B late each evening in order to get some sleep herself. Lestrade visited twice a day, once before work, and again on his way home. John on the other hand never left his friend's bedside.

It had been a tense few days for all involved, but finally, almost a week later Sherlock's throat had finally recovered enough to enable him to be taken off the ventilator, and after a few hours he's eyes had opened for the first time since his admission to the hospital – to everyone's great relief.

He'd uttered just one word before his eyes had fluttered closed again as a more natural sleep had taken him.

"John..."

That had been late during the evening before, and as John now stood at the bedroom window and looked down at the hospital car park below, and the view of the city on the horizon, he turned back to his friend and smiled.

It was going to be at least another week before Sherlock would be well enough to leave the hospital; his body had taken quite an unprecedented beating and was going to need time to fully recover. Despite the fact that the majority of the swelling had now gone down the detective's throat was still very bruised, and his neck was going to be remain painful for a few days to come.

He was also both physically and emotionally exhausted – and he wasn't the only one Watson thought silently to himself, as he cast his mind back over the past few days.

Sherlock Holmes stirred in his sleep, grimacing as a pained moan escaped him, and John sighed – abandoning his own moment of quiet contemplation he stepped over to his friend's side, adjusting his pillows and pulling the blankets further up towards his friend's chest in order to try and make him a little more comfortable. He then gently manoeuvred both of Sherlock's hands beneath the sheets, being careful not to dislodge the drip in the process, and readjusted his oxygen mask.

Yes, it had been a tough week for all involved, but given time he now felt significantly assured that Sherlock Holmes was going to be just fine.


End file.
